


Lovat Green with Barbour in hand

by untilourapathy (gwendolen_lotte)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Muggle, Crush, Fluff, M/M, Oxford, poshness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-08
Updated: 2018-01-08
Packaged: 2019-03-02 11:43:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13317372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwendolen_lotte/pseuds/untilourapathy
Summary: Should you, the reader, have peeked into Harry J. Potter’s thoughts one early Wednesday morning, this is what you would have found.





	Lovat Green with Barbour in hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoldenTruth813](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoldenTruth813/gifts).



> written for the tumblr prompt: drarry muggle AU where Draco is posh AF and Harry can't stand how much he's attracted to his ridiculousness
> 
> written ridiculously quickly and unbetaed, so forgive me my mistakes xx

Malfoy’s one of those. One of those Dom Per boys who’ve been on the Eton list since gestation, one of those who couldn’t wear trousers till eight, one of those who’s birthdays are written about effusively in Bystander, commenting on the simply fabulous nature of the use of crepe and table runners. A bog-standard phrase for him would be something along the lines of ‘and yah, Daddy didn’t even invite me the last time the Prime Minister came round for supper – simply ridiculous, don’t you think?’, or ‘so sorry I’m late, my driver mixed my houses up’. Yet people adore him nonetheless, as ridiculous as he is. 

It almost makes it worse, Harry thinks, but he can’t talk, not with his crush. It’s possibly because Malfoy’s so charismatic – nobody can hold court at table like Malfoy can – and despite his braggadocio, can be hilariously self-depreciating when warranted. He’s so country posh Harry can practically hear the garbled marbles in his throat. But that’s not quite why he wants to explore his throat, Harry thinks, resisting the urge to cover his collarbones with kisses. 

Money or not, however, they’re both here at St John’s, Malfoy in his whites and Harry in his Dark Blues. Malfoy peers round Harry’s shoulder as they pick up their last paper for Hilary from the pigeon hole in their tutor’s musty office, resting his chin on his Harry’s shoulder. Harry has never felt his shoulder so acutely in his life. 

‘Marvellous, darling,’ he croons in his lovat green tweed, his casual blazer, rolling his eyes pettily at Harry’s 2:1 as he holds his smug First in his left. This crush is completely stupid, Harry knows. He’s been told. By multiple people, multiple times. Ron’d even flung his come-stained sheets out the windows as his expression of his opinion on Malfoy (‘a complete wankstain, obviously’) when he’d come to visit from Newcastle. 

It’s a bad idea, a self-flagellating concept, doomed from the start. But it’s quite fun, having a crush, Harry thinks. At least when he’s not overthinking every interaction, or acting completely arse over tit in hopes of Malfoy noticing him at last. 

Or, even, going to watch Fives simply to see him in action, muscles flexing abnormally as he chases after the ball, racquet in gloved hand. But honestly, what _would_ Harry do with all his spare time without the preoccupation of his crush? Without Malfoy, who would he rib at breakfast with a smile, and who would rib him back? And who would be there to shit on his every idea, good or bad, grinning all the while? 

No, Harry’s alright with Malfoy being one of those.


End file.
